


why won’t my hands stop shaking (when all the earth is still)

by WreakingHavok



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Far From Home
Genre: Blood, Dreams, Gen, Gore, Illusions, POV Second Person, Violence, peter needs several hugs, the train (tm)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 13:55:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19831621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WreakingHavok/pseuds/WreakingHavok
Summary: Beck laughs and laughs and laughs, and even after you’ve put three bullets through his head you can hear him. You’ll always hear him.Go away, you think to the room around you, to MJ’s corpse, to Aunt May’s glazed, dead, stare.And you’ve known this whole time, that it wasn’t real. You’re horrified, though, when you feel yourself start to wake up, and you realize that even Beck could never make something so twisted. It could only be you.Or,Peter Parker has been hit by a train. Title from Pippin.





	why won’t my hands stop shaking (when all the earth is still)

**Author's Note:**

> You have Quillium to blame for this.
> 
> I do enjoy the second person on occasion and wanted to try something with it, and this was what I thought of. We love experimenting. We also love overnight flights to write on when you should be sleeping haHA
> 
> Trigger warnings: blood, character death, gore

A train.

You’ve been hit by a train.

It hurts more than you thought it would.

You cling to the side of the roaring metal beast - you don’t know how. You think your body is merely sticking to the side. You don’t think you can hold on to anything.

But you do anyway. You have to. You pull yourself over, up, slide open the door with one arm. You walk, or limp, more like, to one of the seats in the abandoned train car.

You wonder what it would be like if you were in New York. If the car was packed full of people, and no one cared that you were dying, but they would call the police or the hospital or stop the train and help you because they wanted you to stop bleeding on their clothes. You’d rather there were people here to not care about you than no one here at all.

You’d rather be home.

You sit, or fall, more like, into the hard seat. It feels like you can’t breathe. Maybe you can’t. You taste blood, smell blood, see it smearing your fingers as you clutch your side.

It hurts so bad that now you can’t feel it, which you think is a small mercy but also, it’s really, really bad. There’s no one to ask for your vital signs, no one to stitch up your wounds and mutter that you have to be more careful, and no one, no one, no one -

You cough, then groan, then clench your teeth shut so you can’t scream. There’s no one around to hear you, but you do it anyway, biting your tongue.

You swallow the blood in your mouth, blink the tears out of your eyes - when had you started crying? - and listen. You listen to your breathing, heavy and erratic, you hear the train clacking on the tracks, you hear - maybe if you’d been good enough, Tony would still be alive -

Beck’s words rip holes through your skin, shatter your bones, light your nerves on fire. You close your eyes. You’ve been hit by a train. It doesn’t hurt at all, now. 

Not nearly as much as Beck’s voice.

You close your eyes, because what you can’t see can’t hurt you, and you pass out.

~

Tony is there.

His flesh is falling off his bones, charred skin flaking away, but his eyes are there. Boring into your soul. 

Not real, you say to yourself. Not real.

“Kid,” Tony says, so soft, gentle. You stare at him. You don’t dare move.

Tony steps, his ghoulish form staggering forward. You don’t move. You can’t. 

“Kid,” Tony says again, and there’s just something not right about all this, besides the decaying corpse of your mentor, father, friend, who is dead, standing before you.

You don’t dare answer. You can’t.

“You didn’t do enough,” Tony says, “but you’re just a kid, after all. We were wrong to expect more.” And he’s almost sympathetic, understanding, and now you know it isn’t real.

“I know,” you say. “But you did.”

And Tony grins, wide, face splitting, body falling apart in front of you. You wonder if this is how he felt, watching you die five years ago. 

Beck rises from the ashes.

You move, then. You have to.

You run through the black. You wonder where you really are. Beck laughs behind you, in front of you, around you, above you. 

“Run, Peter,” and his howl echoes off the walls and crashes into you. You scream, falling, the void below you now nothing but empty space.

Wind whips through your hair, your clothes. You scrabble for your web-shooters, but you’re wearing nothing but a t-shirt and ripped jeans that have blood staining the knees. Besides, there’s nothing to latch onto.

“Weak,” Beck laughs, and you want to scream back that you know, you know, you know -

He’s there, then, grabbing you by the hair, and your wrists are chained to the wall, and there’s a wall, and a floor, and a ceiling, and Beck smiles, and you howl as he yanks your head back and up.

On the ceiling is MJ, blood dripping from her eyes, or lack of, more like. She’s pale and suddenly you can smell the death in the room.

You scream, her blood splattering your face, and this has plagued your nightmares for months but you never knew it could feel so real.

In the corner of the room are the bodies of his friends - Ned, Betty, Abraham, even Flash, Aunt May, no, no, and Morgan -

“This,” Beck yells, gesturing to the carnage. “This, this will always. Always. Be your ending.”

You won’t do this. You won’t fall for these illusions. 

“Not real!” You shout, or scream, more like, over, and over, and over, and over. You struggle. The chains break. There is a gun in your hand. Beck points to it and laughs.

Beck laughs and laughs and laughs, and even after you’ve put three bullets through his head you can hear him. You’ll always hear him.

Go away, you think to the room around you, to MJ’s corpse, to Aunt May’s glazed, dead, stare.

And you’ve known this whole time, that it wasn’t real. You’re horrified, though, when you feel yourself start to wake up, and you realize that even Beck could never make something so twisted. It could only be you.

~

Everyone is so nice, here.

You almost feel bad for breaking the lock on the cell door. You would, if you didn’t feel like maybe the door wasn’t real in the first place.

You don’t bother with your new suit. It smelled like chlorine and fake leather, and he knows it’s still bloodied, even though you can’t see it through the black.

You run outside, and it’s cold, and the old man that lets you borrow his phone looks at you with such pity that you feel like crying. You try to remember that he isn’t real.

You watch Happy murder a field of tulips with his jet, and you try to remember that they’re probably fake tulips.

Happy is off the plane, then, and you’re stumbling towards him. Your hair is matted, face bruised and bloody, wearing an shirt three sizes too big, in the Netherlands. You wonder how you look.

“Is this real?” You ask, and it’s so easy to read the look of confusion and pain on his face that you wonder if maybe it just might be real.

He proves it to you, and you believe him, and it feels nice to believe in something. You’d almost forgotten. 

You run to him, and you trust him, and he’s solid and warm beneath your hands, and he holds you. His voice rumbles through your body, his hands clench in the back of your shirt.

You tell him everything. You’ve been hit by a train. Your friends are in danger because you trusted a man you thought you knew. You’ll never make that mistake again.

Happy helps you up the ramp to the jet. He murmurs reassurances to you. He tells you your vital signs, tells you he’ll stitch up your wounds, tells you in a voice on the verge of breaking that you have to be more careful.

You don’t want to let go of him.

So you don’t.

You think that maybe, while it doesn’t feel like it now, things might be okay someday. 

And you close your eyes and let Happy take care of you, because what you can’t see can’t hurt you, and you are so very tired of being hurt.


End file.
